Trust Fall
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: He does care for them. That scares him to death. But the facts are undeniable. It would take an idiot not to see it. [Trailer compliant.]


**Trust Fall**

This is the hardest thing he has ever had to do. And he faked his death, so that is saying something.

He's never been the most open of people. Not to himself, certainly not to anyone else. He isn't… entirely sure what the problem is, what the problem has ever been. He's just not hard-wired to let people in that way. Not even himself.

He is much more content to immerse himself in his experiments and his cases and, occasionally, his drugs if the experiments and cases are slow. He's content with hot tea and steaming baths and how Baker Street grants him one or two moments of complete silence in the small hours of the morning– but only a few moments. He can't handle more than one or two seconds of silence.

But he's content there. He's been content by himself for _years_. Then he had met John Watson and his world had gone topsy-turvy. Meeting John had set a chain of events into motion; he had learned that being companionable with people wasn't the worst thing that could happen. He had met John, he had gotten his first true friend since he had been in university, he had begun to see the goodness in people like Molly and Greg and Mrs Hudson and even begrudgingly his own brother, and he had learned to trust them. If only in increasingly small increments. But he had learned to trust them all the same,

His familial relationship had improved. He still didn't know if that was because he had needed Mycroft to help him fake his death or if he'd gotten back on with his parents because he'd gotten shot, but they were actively talking now. It was… strange. Even more strange was that he didn't hate it.

He's learned to be more open and trusting of his friends, of his very best friends. But that doesn't mean that he is, by all means, good at sharing things in their entirety.

So, this is the hardest thing that he has ever done. And he faked his death _and_ gave a speech at a wedding!

Admit how he feels about the people he cares about. Admit how he feels about John Watson and his brother both. He cares for them. Of course he does. But he doesn't… he can't…

John is staring at him, a look on his face that is very much saying _please Sherlock please, do what you're being told to._

Sherlock has his gun and the two people he cares about and an order to tell his friends his deepest secrets. To let them know how much he cares.

 _You do know that they already know?_

 _But what if they don't? What if they've never realised–_

 _They know how much you care; John is your best friend and Mycroft is your brother._

 _But what if they don't? Then I'm the one getting laughed at._

 _They would never do that._

Maybe not, but it doesn't settle the nerves and adrenalin flickering through his veins, making him want to run, hide, avoid emotion– it hurts too much to give in and be rejected, it hurts too much to fathom– and if he admitted to it, that would be leverage for anyone else, any of his enemies– if he admitted how much he cared for them, they would be put in danger. Just like with Magnussen, and John, and Sherlock cannot accept that, either.

He is sure to leave them in danger if he says nothing, though.

Mycroft's looking at him like he doesn't expect him to say anything. His brother expects that he will not betray himself with emotion because he has never before. Sherlock wishes it were that simple, and wishes he could go on without shattering their status quo.

But maybe it's a good thing. Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe if he keeps telling himself that, he can talk himself into it.

He looks between John's expectant face and Mycroft's impassive one. He does care for them. Both of them, and Mary and Molly and Greg and Martha and his parents and his goddaughter… he does.

That scares him to death. But the facts are undeniable. It would take an idiot not to see it.

… that doesn't mean he's going to say it to their faces, though.

So he gives them both a look that is probably more critical than it ought to be– you don't understand how difficult this is for me, you don't know– and then spins on his heel to look at the door.

"Sherlock–"

"I don't say it," he interrupts, before he can lose his nerve, and John closes his mouth. "Not like… normal people," he mutters, "But I do, I-I…" Say it, say it, they're just words. You've said them before on cases undercover when they didn't matter, why do you have so much trouble now? He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes.

Exhales.

Opens them again.

"I love you."

His heart hammers in his chest. The world does not explode. John nor Mycroft say a word, and Sherlock wonders if he is imagining the surprise he feels coming from both of them. He must be. He must be–

"… We know, Sherlock."

He nearly spins around, and the surprise on his end now. They know, they really do–

Cold laughter drags him out of those thoughts as quickly as they come. He is immediately shutting down and immediately on guard. He takes a step back between John and Mycroft because everyone involved in this affair has already heard, they already know: he will protect them, with his life, if need be.

"You've given them the utmost ammunition in the world to destroy you, Mr Holmes."

"I think I'll take my chances," he calls back, even if his fingers are clammy around the gun. "Now don't you think you ought to, too? Come on. Play fair."

"Just how much do you trust them?"

He affords himself a glance to John, who looks back at him. Sharing the glance that they always share: companionship and loyalty, rolled into one. And then he glances at Mycroft, wants to scowl on reflex and finds that he cannot any longer, and they share a glance as familiar as breathing itself. Apparently emotionless, and full of silent promise, too. It's been that way since they were kids.

 _I trust them more than I trust myself._

He doesn't say that. He is nearing his quota for sentimental words for the day.

"Well, let's just say I trust them more than I trust you," he retorts instead, and it isn't a lie.

It isn't a lie.

* * *

 **A/N: Wooooow it's been a long time. It's just, you know, I've written a lot for this fandom and 2-3 year hiatuses don't mesh with the muse. But I am back for the new series! I'll be trying to write compliant fic for this series before/during/after it airs! I'm also taking requests right now, which you can find out about on my Tumblr (with the same name - cumberbatchcritter. I'm over there all the time if you want to message me!)**

 **Hopefully there's still some fans following me? If yall even remember me haha**

 **I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading!**


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